At the beginning of 2020 I started something new. I wanted to stretch myself as a writer and have an outlet for all the words that seem to bubble up inside me. The goal was to do a daily blog post, but in February I decided to take weekends off, having found that even I, the Wordy One, needed a regular break – a time to let new crops of words germinate and grow.

More often than not, I didn’t know what these fingers were going to type when I opened up the WordPress app. I usually started with a photo or two and let my imagination take it from there. I was surprised at how often poems emerged. It felt a little bit like Aaron’s pathetic excuse for making a golden calf: “The people gave me gold and I cast it into the fire, and this calf came out.” I looked at a photo, cast about for words, and this poem came out. Some of those poems probably deserved the same fate as the golden calf: burned in the fire, ground into powder, scattered on the water and then put into a drink that I’d be forced to drink as penitence.

Many of you faithfully read my posts all year and even made comments and sent emails, thus making it more of a conversation. Thank you! Thank you!

I haven’t decided yet whether or not to continue the experiment in 2021. But if I do, I’ll look forward to more conversations with you.

The LORD bless you and keep you.
The LORD make His face shine upon you
And be gracious to you;
The LORD lift up His countenance upon you,
And give you peace.

Belated Merry Christmas! Let us all look forward to 2021, holding fast to the confession of hope without wavering, for He who promised is faithful. Amen!

I’ll probably delete this…

I can’t decide if I am just really busy these days, or just using my time badly, but I’ve had a hard time writing blog posts this week. Could it be the approaching holiday? Anyway, here’s what I’m going to do today: I’m going to cycle back through my photos, pick one at random and see what I can find to write about it. We’ll either be calling it “The Writer’s Challenge,” or “Writer’s Block Disguised as a Blog Post.” Or maybe “Mischief Managed.” I borrowed that from J.K. Rowling.

So here I go – I’ll be right back with a photo.

The Magpie’s’ Story

I am related to the common crow, but clearly I drank from the better parts of that genetic pool. We’ll call him a distant cousin – very distant. I wouldn’t nod to him if I saw him on the same branch on which I was perched.

Having established that, allow me to clear my name of centuries of false accusations. I do NOT – I repeat – I do NOT steal shiny items from people. I speak for my whole family, even the nefarious Uncle Ned. No, you can’t steal something that belongs to you. We magpies have always maintained that the Shiny Items of this world are a permanent part of our Family Treasure. It’s written in our founding documents somewhere, all properly notated, with all the legalese you could possible want (various repetitions of the phrase “per stirpes” give it just the right amount of gravitas). If you have a Shiny Item such as a watch, a spoon, a necklace, or bottle top, we consider it ours and it is our solemn duty to bring it back into our possession. This is not stealing – it is reclamation.

So, other than that, what can I tell you about myself? I’m one of the smartest birds around – I can even recognize myself in the mirror. And when I do, I sing a little song that some of you may know:

I feel pretty,
oh so pretty!
I feel pretty and witty and bright!
And I pity
Any bird who isn’t me tonight!

Someone else stole that song from the Magpie Musicians’ Guild and the next thing you know, some twit named Maria is singing it in a tragic movie called “West Side Story.” I tell you, we magpies are weary of our property being stolen.

There’s so much more to tell you, but I’ve got to fly away – I see something glinting in the sun over yonder and feel certain there’s more of our Family Treasure just waiting to be reclaimed. You’ve been a great audience – farewell!

I’ll probably wake up tomorrow and wonder if I really wrote all that nonsense, and then I’ll decisively delete it before the Magpie Bloggers’ Guild comes after me with a lawsuit.

I recently received this beautiful bird as a gift – it’s fashioned from a gourd. To my delight, it came with a haiku written by the giver!

Bird in the Garden
Or the Garden in the Bird
The Gourd lives two lives!

Get you some friends that will write clever haiku for you, that’s what I say.

Short and sweet tonight – very sweet.

I will probably
Completely obliterate
This post tomorrow.

She sits atop our Christmas tree every year and has done so for nearly 30 years. Every once in a while one of our children would offer up a thought that we should dispense with the angel and put a star up there like all the best trees had. Specifically a star that would light up, so as to signify the Star of Bethlehem. The idea has merit, of course, but I wouldn’t trade this angel for a star. No siree. In fact, if you see a lighted star at the top of our Christmas tree in future years, it’s a sure sign that I’ve gone on to glory and am no longer around to supervise.

The angel represents the angels that heralded the good news to the shepherds out abiding in their fields. But that’s not why I keep her up there. No siree.

I keep her up there as a remembrance of the hot glue sacrifice required of my fingers to make her. My friend Sue and I worked on these together back in the day when my Craft-O-Meter was still low, but on the ascendancy. Each layer of her beautiful gown had to be hot-glued to the waist and there was only one way to make sure it stayed where it was supposed to. Fingers, do your duty! Each fresh layer caused fresh pain. But when the angels were done, I felt as if I’d created a masterpiece. She was resplendent in her glory! All those labor pains were worth it.

Her halo is askew, her hair looks a little wild and I’m frankly surprised she’s survived all these years, but each year I’m proud to put her on the top of our tree. She looks over all our Christmas proceedings and if you harken, you can hear what she’s saying:

“Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy which will be to all people. For there is born to you this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord. And this will be the sign to you. You will find a Babe wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger.”

And then suddenly, you’ll see she is being joined by a multitude, an army of angels praising God and saying:

“Glory to God in the highest,
and on earth peace, goodwill to men!”

I can still feel the hot glue burning my fingers; I can still hear her singing. It’s all good.

I will probably delete this in the morning, yes siree.

P.S. Sometimes I wonder if her sister angel has survived the years. Only Sue can tell.

So, a little bit of a blog cop-out here, but I’m getting ready to go to bed and just remembered that I haven’t posted yet today. So instead of giving you up-to-date content, I’m going to delve back into the rich vein of stuff that I recently rediscovered in my Paper app from 6-7 years ago. What follows are two entries in the book called “Journal.” The first one is my entry, signed by “Me.” The second one is a false claimant to the title of me, posing as “The Real Me.” Ha!

Gives you a little idea about the generally odd sort of world we had here back in the day. I guess it’s probably still pretty odd here because I’m still here.

Signing off, I’m the actual Me, not the false Real Me. Got it?

I’ll probably delete this in the morning. Me, not the false Me. And trust me, I know who the false Real Me was, but she’ll remain nameless. Oh, did that give it away?

I was born and raised in Minnesota. I lived through mild winters, cold winters and colder winters. I know about wind chill and I’ve experienced frostbite. So there was really no excuse for me to take a walk today improperly attired when I knew what the temperature was.

Heavy coat: check.
Warm hat: check.
Warm, comfortable boots: check.
Mittens: check.
Scarf to wind around face: AWOL. Absent WithOut Leave.

I wanted to think writerly thoughts as I walked. I brought my camera, expecting to take many photos. I took one inside before I left, sort of a throwaway capture just because it was by the door and the look of it pleased me.

I dropped off the outgoing mail in the mailbox and headed down the street. From that point on, my thoughts were wonderfully focussed:

MY FACE IS COLD MY HANDS ARE COLD MY FACE IS COLD MY HANDS ARE STILL COLD THESE MITTENS AREN’T WARM ENOUGH WHY DIDN’T I BRING A SCARF? MY FACE IS COLD…

And so on.

I took my mittens off to take two photos but my heart wasn’t in it.

MY HANDS ARE REALLY COLD…is all I got out of that.

I was impressed with how many Christmas wreaths were out in the cemetery. I consider myself to be a sentimental sop, but I’m not sure I’d remember to do something like that for a loved one’s grave year after year. Hat’s off to all of you who do.

That’s the muse-o-day for today.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning and you’d better believe I’ll be wearing a scarf when I do so.

Is it better to skip a blog post or do a skimpy one in a hurry? Asking for a friend…

My day was busier than usual, so here I am at the end of a long day waiting for supper, which my husband is out hunting and gathering (i.e. picking up food at a local restaurant). I’m already into a second paragraph in a blog post about nothing, so I’m going to go with option #2: a skimpy post done in a hurry. We’re all friends and I can’t imagine that there will be any condemnation coming from any of you (right?).

Besides, as soon as the sun goes down, my brain checks out and there’s very little left to work with – and it’s winter, so this little scenario gets played out earlier and earlier every day.

I guess the least I can do is show you what I did in an earlier, more productive part of the day when my brain was operating on all cylinders. I started a Christmas stocking for the darling granddaughter!! It’s not finished yet. There will be more decoration and some words on the front.

It doesn’t really compete with those hand-knitted ones that take months, but this is the kind I usually make, so I’m sticking with what I know. 🙂

That’s it – skimpy, fast – done.

I’ll probably…you know the rest.

I have an app on my iPad called “Paper.” I haven’t looked at it in years, but had occasion to revisit it yesterday and discovered many forgotten family treasures. The Paper App is set up in journals and I had created quite a few (this was about 6-7 years ago), one of which was devoted to poetry. I encouraged my children to contribute to this book and many of them did. I share with you now some of those stellar entries.

Gee, I’m glad we did that. I spent a happy hour last night reading through all the poetry and journal entries, looking at sketches, etc. Some of them were SO funny! We raised a family of artsy poetic humorists. And I’ve got the books to prove it. This might be seen as fodder for blackmail by some…

I’ll probably delete this in the morning, but nothing on the computer ever really goes away.

A frog with wanderlust, that was Mr. Fig Newton. All the other frogs were content to stay in the same little pond, year in and year out. But Fig, with his goofy little grin, thought there must be places to go and things to see and by golly, he was going to go there and see them!

Most frogs have no need of a boat – they swim perfectly well and don’t travel far. Fig was in no way daunted by his boatlessness. He was a plucky fellow and not easily dissuaded once he made up his mind. Why can’t more frogs have the courage and vision that Fig has? He had often thought this about himself, but it seemed to be sort of “tooting-my-own-horn” to make such a statement out loud. So he waited for me to say it. And now I have.

He began his wanderings the way frogs usually do – smoothly slipping through the pond waters, and jumping in great bounds on land until he found a river which would take him everywhere in the world (as far as he was concerned). Fig didn’t even have a name yet, if the truth be told. He was indistinguishable from any other frog at this point. But Providence favored his journey and he came immediately into the realm of the right sort of girl, one who wasn’t the least bit squeamish about frogs.

She picked him up and told him solemnly that he was to call her “Miss Lucy.” And after some reflection, she further decreed that he would be known as “Fig Newton.” It’s just as well that he didn’t know he was named after a pastry filled with fig paste – it might have dampened his spirits a bit.

Little Miss Lucy was the perfect patroness. She knit a tiny scarf for him so he wouldn’t get cold, and she fashioned a wee sailor’s hat for him to wear for the journey ahead. Of course she knew his heart’s desire was to sail down the river – she was a daughter of the river and knew how irresistible its songs were.

When the time came to part, Miss Lucy put out the boat she’d made for Fig with its cheery flag and sturdy oars. She even gave Fig a toy boat to play with when the open river wasn’t too demanding on his time. “Oh, Fig,” she said, “I will miss you. Please come back to me when you have seen all that you need to see. And be careful. Not everyone loves a frog with wanderlust.”

He tipped his hat to her and rowed away with the current, smiling his goofy smile. Places to go, things to see! But the daughter of the river, Miss Lucy, had tied an invisible string of affection around him that would someday bring him back.

* * * * * * * * *

This fanciful story is dedicated to my granddaughter, Miss Lucy. If she becomes the kind of girl who isn’t squeamish about frogs, she will not have taken after her grandmother. 🙂

Fig Newton Part 2
Fig Newton Part 3

I’ll probably delete this when Fig Newton finishes his travels.

I saw these last week on my walk. Apparently 2020 has been a disorienting year even for the shrubs. Like the apostle Paul, they are as one “untimely born.”

The buds, they were a-budding,
A-dormant they should be.
The rumors they heard of spring
Were just a fallacy.

Reporting on fake news in the shrubbery, I’m Lynniebee.

I’ll probably delete this…or will I? It’s so hard to know things for sure these days.

I can’t believe I’ve gotten this far into December and have not even breathed a word about Christmas or Advent yet. So here I am, breathing some words to you about it, or more accurately, breathing some photos to you. That metaphor got stranger the further I carried it.

It was a fairly bleak day when I went out on my walk today. In the mood-creating department of the weather kitchen, this was shaping up to be a foul brew. There’s something oppressive about these days when the clouds put us on lockdown in the great outdoors. But it’s hard to get too far into the doldrums when the neighborhood has decked its halls with boughs of holly and donned its gay apparel. By the time I got home, I was singing out loud (but not too loudly) “It’s the most wonderful time of the year!”

I love seeing how many different versions of the holy family there are, and usually placed right next to Santa Claus or Frosty the Snowman. I like to think of these others as sidekicks to the true hero of the season: Jesus!

As the days get shorter and the darkness eats up more of the daylight, it’s a joy to contemplate that in the midst of all of that, “the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in the land of the shadow of death, upon them a light has shined.” Isaiah 9:2

Why else do we put up Christmas lights outside and put lights on our Christmas trees inside?

It’s the most wonderful time of the year!

I’ll probably delete this in the morning.